Constellations
by Crystal Sampson
Summary: Sam carries a lot of scars. Mentions of assumed self-harm/suicide.


_This fic was written for my underserved reputation square in h/c bingo. The standard disclaimer applies._

 _ **Warnings:** Mentions of assumed suicide_

* * *

It got better as time went by. Sam supposed that was true of most scars. He doubted these would ever garner less than pity or horror, but as time went by, people stopped noticing as much.

When it first happened, he hated going out in public. They fled the hospital before the crack team of doctors could subject him to a psych evaluation, then ended up just wandering aimlessly until Sam got some of his strength back, because blood loss was a bitch when you'd been nearly drained dry. Even Ruby wouldn't let him do anything until he looked a little less pallid.

Everywhere he went, people stared. Unfortunately, on this perpetual road trip of theirs, public places were pretty much where they lived. Diners, laundromats, convenience stores, restrooms on the sides of gas stations, even motel lobbies were full of people gaping at him.

The worst had been the clerk at that gas station outside of Mobile. Dean had sent him on a snack run so they wouldn't have to stop anytime soon. He gathered up the usual fair and dumped it all on the counter when it was his turn at the checkout. He felt her eyes lingering on his arms. The gauze had come off a few days ago, revealing the stitches that stood out angry against his skin. Even Sam thought they looked bad, but it was just too damn hot to wear a hoody.

He counted out a handful of bills and passed them to her. She took the money with a tight smile before offering, "It gets better, you know."

"What?"

She gestured towards the line of stitches. "Life. It gets better. Might not seem like it now, but it does. Plenty worth living for."

Sam froze, blinking at her before it sank in what she was saying. Up to that point, most people had avoided eye contact and spoke to him in hushed tones. It was disconcerting to have someone talking about it so blatantly. "Oh, no," he stammered. "It's not… It isn't what you think."

She just smiled sadly. "Just remember, there are people who would miss you." She nodded out the window towards where Dean was leaning against the Impala waiting for him. Sam snatched the bags up and fled. He retreated into the car without glancing at Dean.

He knew exactly how his brother would deal if Sam died.

"Sam?" Dean asked. He climbed into the car and started the engine, but made no move to pull out.

Sam continued to stare out the window, gazing out at the traffic passing by on the road.

"What's gotten you bent out of shape?"

Sam shrugged.

"Seriously, to look like you've seen a ghost – or not but whatever. You're white as a sheet."

"I'm fine," Sam snapped. "Don't worry about it."

There was a half second of silence before Dean said, "Sam…"

Sam shrugged. "Just stupid people. It's nothing."

"Did someone do something? Are you hurt?"

Sam gave a thin smile. "Just my pride. I'm fine. Let's just get out of here.

He wondered on occasion why only Dean got the new body on his trip back from Hell, but he supposed it probably had to do with the fact that Sam had physically jumped into the cage, body and soul. When Cas rescued his body it was well and truly Sam's. It not like there had been a need to put the pieces back together as there had been for Dean.

By the time he met Amelia, he had honestly lost track of all the marks hunting had left on his body. The neat lines on his arms were just two of many and he barely thought of them anymore unless someone made a fuss. Of course Amelia noticed. She'd seen all his scars that first time in the motel, but it was months before she brought it up.

Sam lay next to her, soaking up her warmth as she ran her finger absently across his chest. She traced the contours of a scar running along his collar bone from when he got too close to a werewolf. Her hand skipped across to another claw mark closer to his side.

She frowned and propped herself up to look at him.

"Sam," she said. She sounded quiet and a little timid. She was biting her lip. He made an encouraging noise so she would know he was listening.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He frowned. "Sure," he shrugged.

She hesitated, chewing on her lip and glancing down at her hand that was still tracing gently across his skin. "Were you abused growing up?"

Sam froze under her hand. "What?" He asked, his voice going deadly soft.

"I'm sorry." She pulled her hand away. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just, you never talk about your family and you have so many scars. I just…I'm sorry. Forget I said that."

Sam sat up, leaving her to stare at his back.

After a deep breath to bring his emotions in check, he said, "My father loved me and my brother both. He might have been a stubborn bastard, but he did the best he could. He would never have laid a finger on either of us."

"Okay," she said timidly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." After a long minute, she added. "You've got to admit it's strange though. You never mention them. What was your family like growing up?"

Sam shrugged. "Not much to tell. It's just been hard lately. We lost Dad in a car accident when I was first out of college. Bobby, our uncle, pretty much adopted us as his own. Then he passed and right after him, Dean…I just…there's not a whole about our family that isn't hard to talk about."

"So, if it wasn't…that, then what happened? Not that you're not gorgeous, 'cause I mean, look at you, but that's a lot of scars."

Sam grimaced and tried to muster a smile for her. "I just have really bad luck. It was something of a running gag in our family. You could always trust me to end up in some sort of trouble."

She sat up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. She ran a finger along the same claw mark she had been tracing earlier. "What happened here?"

"Hunting accident. Turns out there were two bears, not one."

"Are you even allowed to hunt bears?"

Sam shrugged. "When they are sick and mauling people you are."

"What?" She gasped.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, wildlife guys never did figure out exactly what was wrong, but they'd gone nutty. Kept roaming into town. Normally they steer clear of places like that, but these hung around. They think at first they were eating people's trash. Anyway, they caught a couple people unaware. Lot of injuries." Five deaths before they killed the second werewolf. "In the end, we took care of it and I had sixteen new stitches to show off."

She was quiet for a minute before tapping the small round scars littering his upper back. "And these?"

Those were from the time Dean had to shoot a ghost that was about to strangle him to death. The salt had gone right through the spirit. Sam had been able to pull air into his lungs at long last, but some of the rock salt had lodged itself under his skin. Luckily, most of it had healed up.

"I got the bad end of this guy's shotgun." At her gasp, he hurried to add. "He had it loaded with rock salt. He'd been using it to scare off stray cats. He thought I was one of the hooligans that had been vandalizing his house."

Next she tapped the bullet wound from when they'd raided that vampire nest – the armed vampire nest. "Another hunting accident. Not all guns have safeties. Important life lesson there."

She trailed her fingers down his arm and settled halfway between his wrist and his elbow. "And this?"

Sam blushed a little. The scars had lessened over time. They'd faded and you only really saw them if you were looking, but they were there. The ghouls had known what they were doing. The cuts had been surgically placed, smooth and fine, not jagged like they could have been, but they were deep. Sam wondered if they ever would fade completely.

"It's not what you think," he said with a huff.

"What do I think?" She asked. He could sense the warning in her tone, but he didn't feel like dealing with it.

"You think I tried to kill myself." He held out both arms side by side in front of him, staring down at them. "Everyone always does."

She shrugged. "So, what did happen?"

"You won't believe me."

"What? Why?"

"Because it sounds outlandish even to me and I was there."

"Try me."

Sam huffed dramatically. "I got kidnapped."

Amelia blinks and pulls back to look at him, confused.

"Yeah, I know. But it's true. I managed to stumble onto this cult who was sacrificing people for some ritual. They were bleeding them dry. Dean found me just in time. Gave me crap about it for ages. I was only going to get coffee and I end up in the middle of a serial murder spree." Sam shuddered just remembering them.

Amelia stared at him in silence for a long moment. Finally, she said, "Sam Worth, if even half of that was true …"

Sam laughed at her expression. "It's all true." Maybe the abridged truth, but he really had been mauled, shot, and drained.

She laid back, pulling him with her. "You should write a book."

Sam was forcibly reminded of images of shirtless men and fangirls. He burst into laughter, gasping for air.

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing," he gasped. "Never mind."

"No, what? Why are you laughing at me?" She pouted next to him.

"I'm not laughing at you. Some day. I promise, I'll explain."

"Why not now?" She wanted to know.

"Because, as much as I like you, we don't know each other well enough for that. It's as much for your protection as my pride."

"My protection? What are you, a spy?"

"Think of it more like witness protection."

"No. No, Sam Worth. International man of mystery. Sounds about right to me."

Sam snorted, tangling their fingers together. "I promise it's nothing as glamourous as that."

She shrugged and settled down to snuggle into his side. "Should have thought about that before. Now you're my spy."

Sam grinned and pulled her closer. "I can live with that," he said, laying a kiss on top of her head.


End file.
